This is purely PWP - I refuse to apologise for what I have done with the boys in this...
Thanks to MapleleafCameo for checking this over for me
There was no sound as he walked towards the closed door.
His long, artistic fingers hovered briefly over the door handle, then wrapped around it and twisted it softly, carefully, not wishing to wake the occupant of the room.
With the door open he could see the bed's occupant, dimly lit by moonlight creeping through a gap in the ill-drawn curtains. The interloper smiled. It was just like him to flick the material hurriedly along its rail, not really caring, too tired to bother, and as if in confirmation of that fact the silvery beams highlighted the clothes strewn haphazardly over the chair instead of being folded neatly.
A smile graced pale, plump lips.
The man in the bed lay on his side, face towards the empty half of the king size mattress, the sheet rucked around his hips, one hand stretched out as if in supplication, his face wiped clear of the tensions of the day, peaceful. It seemed a shame to disturb him.
Softly, gently, as if the one he reached out to was a cornered wild animal rather than a sleeping man he reached to brush a stray clump of blond hair from the other's forehead. It was longer than usual, overdue for a cut, yet as those long slender fingers brushed through the dichotomy of soft blond and coarser grey he couldn't help but think that this was better; this was so much more…
A deep indrawn breath stilled his hand momentarily as the man in the bed stirred, muttering quietly, incoherently, shuffling slightly closer to the middle of the bed then with another deep sigh settling once more.
The smile grew broader on those lush lips as his dark head lowered to draw in the scent of peaceful sleep. There was something about it that drove his blood pulsing through his veins, heading south to his groin, yet sparking goose bumps across his naked flesh. John smelled of summer – cheap apple-scented hair and body wash, but under that was a scent that spoke to Sherlock in a way that nothing else ever could – that musky scent that carried with it the spice of adventure and adrenaline fuelled chases, of dark alleyways overlaid with soft cotton and heated embraces.
Gently lowering himself into the empty space beside the doctor, and pulling gently to free the sheet draped it over his legs, now was not the time to cover the softly glowing flesh that lay beside him.
Giving in at last to temptation, Sherlock leaned forward and buried his nose in the crook of John's neck, breathing him in, and all the while he stroked himself gently, tormenting himself, keeping his keening body on edge.
The rhythm of John's breathing changed subtly, and Sherlock felt the smile that stretched across his face as he tipped his head back slightly to allow the younger man better access.
Moving in closer Sherlock licked a stripe up the proffered skin, then scraped his teeth back down over the throbbing carotid pulse. With a sound that was a cross between a moan and a sigh John's hand came up to bury fingers in the riot of curls, fluffy from having been freshly washed, and he applied pressure, pushing Sherlock's mouth harder against his skin as his body arched towards the other like a magnet to metal.
Drawn to the heat of John's body, Sherlock ceased his self-teasing and reached across to grasp the other man's hips, pulling them together, aligning arousals and causing twin gasps of need.
Still holding Sherlock's mouth to his neck – where the other man was now nipping and sucking at the tingling pulse point – John set up a grinding motion, pushing his hips into Sherlock, rubbing his hard, hot, sensitive, velvety flesh against Sherlock's, the rhythm stuttering as the younger man growled his need and clenched his hands tight, bruising, holding hard to John's hips.
Sweat was beginning to coat both men, their bodies becoming slick, glowing as if oiled, and the room filled with the scent of musky, heated bodies and pheromones, With a groan that told Sherlock exactly how much he wanted him John reached down between them, taking them both in hand and stroking firmly. His other hand still in Sherlock's hair now tugged gently, pulling his mouth from his neck so that he could crush those cupids bow lips against his own, his tongue invading Sherlock's mouth, tasting mint.
As tongues danced and entwined Sherlock's hands moved, scrabbling for a firm hold on the doctor's still toned and solid body, his hands sliding up and over rock hard biceps, clutching at shoulders as his hips thrust him into John's hand.
Not a word was spoken.
The only sounds were animal growls and wordless cries of release.
Rapid heartbeats gradually returned to slow steady rhythm, breathing was less ragged, and the nighttime chill dried the sweat on their skin.
Reaching out, long artistic fingers pulled a handful of tissues from a box on the bedside table and wiped them clean.
The bed's original, solitary occupant pulled the covers up, spreading them gently over both of them before pulling the interloper into his arms, wrapping himself protectively around the slender pale body.
And as the moonlight slipped past, away now from the gap in the curtains, safe and sated, they slept.